Falling Skyward

Chapter Two: Dying Leaves

The mottled grey mixture plopped into the bowl with a squelch. Lana stood puzzling over the concoction, wondering how she reduced oats to this sickly, glue-like hash. The drabness of the breakfast matched her mood as she peeked out the window, a crippling longing replacing the hunger in her stomach. Crimson clouds beckoned to her as she crouched over the stove, wishing more than ever that she could be allowed to work in the fields that morning. The ground had just thawed enough to allow for the first cutting, but her uncle had informed her company was expected and it would be indecent if they found her in the field splattered with mud.

She beat the sloppy breakfast feverishly, trying to stir away her energy. She dared not use more milk to thin the paste but instead cheered its color by sprinkling in the wild berries she gathered that morning. The purple stains bled into the bowl. Only then did Lana notice the smoke billowing from the pot over the fire.

Moments later, after Lana's hands were raw and scorched but the flatbread tolerably saved—drizzled with berry juice and sprinkled with cumma seeds to hide the burnt flavor—Katalia burst through the door, stuttering and breathless.

"He's here, Lana. I can't believe it. He's here, and so soon." Lana's twelve-year-old cousin fluttered around the kitchen, her pale hands quivering like delicate birds. The two couldn't have looked more unalike. While Lana had dark skin and eyes so brown they appeared black, with flecks of gold and amber that could make them blaze at times, Katalia's eyes were the same slate blue and her skin as pale as the other villagers'. And while Lana's dark hair, streaked with reds and browns, curled and kinked with a mind all its own, Katalia's silvery-white hair fell in one, silken sheet. "Go, quick. Get changed, before father finds you like this," Katalia continued.

"What does it matter if Uncle sees me like this?" Lana laughed, sending up a cloud of purple, bitter-wheat flour as she patted her filthy apron. "He's seen me singed and smoking plenty of times before. And I think he will find me that way many mornings to come, unfortunately." Lana stuck a swelling finger unceremoniously into her mouth.

"No, no. It's not Father I mean. It's Direc. Direc is here to spend the morning with you and Father."

Lana nearly dropped the platter of salvaged fried bread, her face settling into a stormy scowl. "But he was here visiting just two nights ago. Why didn't uncle tell me he was coming?" Lana rounded on her cousin, her eyes flickering a red rawer and more heated than her blistered fingers. "Why didn't you or the others warn me?"

"Well—now, don't be angry with me. Oh dear . . . how . . . you see . . . Father made me promise not, not to tell you. He seemed to think, that is to say . . . well, he was afraid you would run off or find some excuse to leave before Direc arrived."

"Well, he supposed right. There is nothing in Brevishaven that could induce me to sit through another meal with someone gawking at me every moment." Even as she spoke, Lana searched her mind for any good excuse to flee.

"Quick then, quick. Get upstairs and into some suitable clothes," Katalia trilled.

"I'm already in a dress. Shouldn't that be enough?"

Lana enjoyed seeing the torture on her cousin's face as she tried desperately to force Lana upstairs and out of sight. She delayed the unpleasant task until Katalia was nearly hysteric with dread, whisking upstairs just as Direc entered the front parlor. Even without an escape Lana still had the liberty to choose when and how she arrived.

After throwing on her forest and lime green work dress—what the Widow Marr had dubbed an "ostentatious display of color"—Lana nestled into her windowsill with a book, morning light infusing the pages with a pleasant glow. Knowing from frequent experience the extent of her uncle's tolerance, Lana ignored the calls from the kitchen, reading a chapter or two before stumbling downstairs.